


is this the real life, is this just fantasy?

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Incest, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, Vinegar Tom is a legend, Voyeurism, sisters literally doing it for themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Admittedly, there’s really only one person Zelda wants to spy on.





	is this the real life, is this just fantasy?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thegaygumballmachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/gifts).

> July has been a shitshow of a month, but I couldn't NOT finish this fic in time for July's challenge. This is a companion piece to thegaygumballmachine's AMAZING fic "no thank you, mister mercury." If you haven't read it, GO RIGHT NOW.
> 
> Comments are love.

The Spellmans are prone to spying. 

It comes as naturally to Zelda as if it were just another facet of her magic, as effortless as hexing or telekinesis or sex. 

She’d learned from the best at an early age. Priscilla Spellman did not take kindly to young Zelda trailing behind her skirts, but she generally tolerated being observed from a distance while Priscilla herself listened at the office door or thumbed through Father’s date book. She’d learned from Mother how to creep, how to sneak, and how to lie with a smile. 

Some tricks she learned from Edward. 

The rest, Zelda had picked up on her own, honing her skills over the years.

Admittedly, there’s really only one person Zelda wants to spy on. 

Hilda is a creature of habit, of comforts. She does not pass her time the way Zelda does, which has only served to spur Zelda on, to make it all the more imperative that she catch sweet, innocent, goody-goody Hilda in...something. 

_Anything._

Zelda has tried and failed on many occasions to catch Hilda in the act -- the actual act itself isn’t important, but to be the one to spy her little sister doing something naughty? 

It’s all Zelda has ever wanted. 

-

Zelda has completed her final incision in Jackie Portman’s torso when she feels the first curious tendrils of magic at the outskirts of her mind. She shakes it off, reaching instead for a clamp, but pauses when a blurry image begins to emerge: pink ankles and maroon Mary Janes. 

Zelda’s heart races and she sets down the clamp. She pushes back her protective eyewear and allows her mind to open and her eyes to close, to accept the watercolor vision until it sharpens into focus. 

Vinegar Tom trots lazily -- and a tad breathlessly, Zelda realizes, and she makes a mental note to cut back on his table scraps -- behind Hilda, who had claimed that she’d be too busy to help with the embalming of the rather large, rather apeish _former_ butcher. 

Hilda had claimed some need to traverse into the Greendale wood to collect ingredients for some potion or another, though there is no sign of her basket or her gardening shears.

Zelda smirks, vindicated. 

Finally: Hilda caught in a lie. 

Zelda pulls off rubber gloves and lights a cigarette, anticipation mounting as she watches through her familiar’s eyes as Hilda settles herself amongst the gnarled roots of her favorite tree, book in hand. 

Zelda’s shoulder’s droop. 

What book could possibly be worth the effort of lying? 

Vinegar Tom crouches down beside Hilda, looking up at the blonde witch as she holds a finger to her lips in a secretive gesture. 

“Hush now, Tom,” Hilda says mischievously, blue eyes giving a conspiratorial wink. “You won’t tell Zelds that we’re taking the afternoon off, will you?” 

The familiar huffs in agreement. 

“Good boy.” Hilda leans forward, scratching Vinegar Tom behind his ears. “Now, where’d we leave off, hmm?” She wiggles with glee as she opens her novel and begins to read.

In the time it takes to finish two cigarettes and contemplate a third, Zelda has begun to believe that this is a lost cause. Her instructions to Vinegar Tom have not changed in a century: keep an eye on Hilda and report back with any interesting findings. Zelda’s familiar has spent a great deal of time spying on her sister, though he has had very little to show for it. Hilda has been spied doing such racy activities as not following her knitting patterns, sneaking cookies from the literal cookie jar, pouring whiskey into her afternoon tea, and, on one occasion, had danced Vinegar Tom throughout the entire first floor to “La Bamba.” 

This, however, is turning out to be a supreme waste of Zelda’s time -- though admittedly, she hasn’t minded watching her sister read. Hilda in silent repose is a sight to behold: all fair, golden hair, ruddy cheeks, small smiles and giddy laughter. 

She’s exquisite. 

Zelda could almost forgive her lazy lump of a familiar for wasting her time just for the gift of staring at her sister uninterrupted, especially when Hilda bites her lip. 

Vinegar Tom’s eyes suddenly close. The vision goes dark.

Zelda has almost severed the connection, but Hilda’s voice catches her just in time. “Tom? You asleep?” 

He is _not_ asleep; Zelda would be unable to hear if he were. There is _something_ he wants her to hear, and Zelda listens harder. 

“Tommy, love?” 

The familiar does not open his eyes, and Zelda leans in. 

“Perfect,” Hilda sighs breathlessly, and something telling in the edge of that breath makes Zelda’s heart race and her cunt clench with raw lust. 

Zelda can hear the faint sounds of shuffling, of fabric shifting, and then, it’s there, unmistakable. 

Hilda moans softly. 

Tom won’t dare open his eyes now, the prude, will instead make Zelda suffer. 

But then Hilda moans again, louder this time, and it’s shaky, as if she’s trying to restrain herself. 

Of all the things Zelda had expected to catch her sister doing, _this_ had not factored among them. 

At least -- not in the light of day, not outside her innermost desires. Oh, but how she has _hoped_...

The sound Hilda makes now is unlike any sound Zelda has ever heard her sister make, and it has her slick and throbbing between her legs immediately. 

The combined smells of formaldehyde, cigarette smoke, and decay make for lackluster ambiance, but needs must. Zelda’s focus narrows, straining for any gasp, any sigh, any — 

“Ooh!”

Zelda’s hands grasp the metal slab. The scrap of satin between her legs is soaked. 

“Yes...oh…” Hilda pants breathlessly. “S—“

Zelda can’t spare more than a passing thought (S is for…? Satan? Sybil, the Greendale librarian? Or, dare she hope, _sister_?) because then Hilda is crying out her release, and it’s loud and raw and easily the most erotic thing she has ever heard in her life. 

Zelda holds her breath as she listens and listens and listens. 

Minutes later, Hilda giggles breathlessly, and Vinegar Tom breaks the connection. 

-

Zelda has craved this advantage for decades and now that she has it, she’s not sure what to do with it. 

Ridiculing Hilda would be so easy. 

Killing her would be easier. 

She watches her sister move about the kitchen, spying from the corner of her eye when Hilda dips her finger directly into the brownie batter. 

Zelda is breathless when Hilda licks the chocolate mixture away. 

Zelda will hold onto this information for now until she decides what to do. In the meantime, she gives extra table scraps to Vinegar Tom. 

\---


End file.
